There were no rules when you lived in Queens. As long as you didn’t do something crazy illegal, all was fair game. Naturally, I would do dangerous and stupid shit, shit that I never thought all the way through in the moment. It was never me trying to make a bold statement and be “cool,” but instead it just happened. It was really just an explorative nerve that struck me and felt normal. What I was doing was totally wrong, and if I got caught (which I didn’t) was grounds for a trespassing charge. Wrong or not, I just remember the feeling of adrenaline along with the peaceful serenity that going up there offered me.

Underneath two busy overpasses lay St. Mike’s, this public park with a playground, all beat up and grass roots growing through the ground, making the whole area a safety hazard. It had basketball courts with no nets and worn out and faded court lines. Even though that was the worst court imaginable, that park was ours, and it was where I spent most of my free time. 

As kids, we’d chill with the older boys and guys dealing, blasting their loud, classic Spanish music on their speakers. Interestingly enough, the dealers all made sure to scare us straight and make sure we wouldn’t take any of their drugs.

Everyone who was anyone in that area would pop out to the park making their presence known, and somehow everyone knew everyone. It was the space to do whatever your mind imagined. From being young kids on the swings to teenage boys playing sports, it was the park that watched us evolve from kids to young men. There was nothing else but St. Mike’s for us, and even though we knew it sucked, we tried to stay grateful.
St. Mike’s was near all the factories, the airport, highways, and even that strip club with the weird sign that all the older brothers would tell us about and simultaneously lose all of their money at. The area always looked gray and the air was always thick and smoggy, creating a nightmare environment for my asthma. 

After school, weekends, fall, winter, spring, summer, it didn’t matter: We were always there. It was great and some of my core memories, lessons, blessings, tough moments, and happiest moments all happened at that park. I got jumped at the park, had my first kiss at the park, won my first fight at the park, had my first beer at the park. 

 Of course, though, we got sick and tired of it. 

The basketball competition was definitely weak that day and we felt like hooping, so our best five got together and made our way down, walking to the park a mile away. But not even two minutes of walking later, we encountered an anomaly. We saw a metal fence, and behind it was a steep incline of dirt. But what was abnormal was a huge hole where some of the fence was ripped out. The gap was just large enough that actual human bodies could fit and slip through it. 

And the obvious answer was to ignore it, but instead we naturally slipped through the fence, and we walked up the steep dirt path, grabbing onto trees and the concrete wall to help support us on the trek. We then hit a patch of green shrubs that I totally trampled, and there it was: a train track. We wanted to see where they went, so we walked south. Then we saw a clearing on the elevated tracks, and we saw the city skyline, with the Empire State Building shining as bright as ever. 

The discovery was an accident, but that became the spot. It was our spot, and it was also my spot. I’d rarely ever see anyone there, making it the only secluded spot for myself. 

Growing up in Queens, all that was around were crowded apartment buildings, train stations and buses, so going up on the tracks was the only free space I had. It was my space. I would get to breathe, and I’d watch the cars on the highway passing by. I’d see the amount of people that looked like ants from above walking into 7/11. Damn, that 7/11 made a lot of money. I’d watch the gas station, the Wendy’s, the apartments, the buses, and I would try to keep my eyes on everything and view something from an angle I’ve never seen all of those regular things before. 

The things that I hated about my life down on the ground level quickly changed as I appreciated the beauty of the daily lives from above. Everything was always moving with thousands of people going about their lives. I’d watch the sunsets and would wait and try to guess what the Empire State Building was trying to commemorate with its special colors of the night. My favorite was whenever it lit up blue and orange for the Mets and the Knicks wins. 

Nothing and nobody was there to bother me most of the time.

Once my cousin and I actually found a makeshift crawl space made out of wood, spray-painted the color of the concrete support beam of the elevated structure to blend in like nothing. Poor guy who lived there – I felt terrible for him – he was totally mentally unwell. We made eye-contact with the man that we could only assume lived there. He stared at us with a deep rage and an intense focus. He wore a tattered, long-sleeve gray shirt and dark jeans. He held something in his hand that I couldn’t quite see. He began making incomprehensible noises. Ahhhhhh. Nahhhhhhh.Gyaaaaa. He was trying to speak, but it wasn’t a language we understood. 

It seemed as though a spirit or illness overcame him. He was speaking gibberish, but what I could understand was the voice of an angry man. He started running. Holy shit, he was fast. Holy shit, he was holding something in his hand. It could’ve been a rock, knife, gun – I  couldn’t see – but was not tryna fuck around and found out. We had about a 75-foot head start. We ran and ran, and just as I thought it was over, he stopped and continued screaming incoherent sentences. We made it out with no scratches, though. It totally did not stop me from going back, and I never saw that guy again.

But my core memory from my time on the tracks was when my friends and I walked four miles of the tracks, exploring the graffiti. It started to pour. It didn’t stop. We were far from the exit, but we scrambled to find a closer one. The thunder roared. The storm was bad. Nobody even had an idea that it was going to rain in the first place. We climbed up the muddy hill together. 

I slipped, my friend slipped, and we were full of mud. But we all finally reached the top of the hill after supporting one another up. Then we climbed the fence, and ended up in some guy’s backyard. One issue, though, our friend wasn’t strong enough to climb the fence, and she kept slipping and falling off. It was too wet and slippery and nobody could help lift her up without falling down in the mud.

They all decided to keep going without her because she told us to leave her. She said she would find her way back the way we came. I really really liked this girl though. She was so beautiful. I hopped the fence back to the other side of the tracks. It was just her and I. 

We didn’t even bother trying to run away from the rain; we just walked all wet and full of mud laughing and running around in it. At the end of that drenching walk, it ended up being worth it. She made the first move, kissed me and we made out. I could say that 13-year-old me kissed the girl I really liked and that she was super into me too. 

Nothing more came after that, but it was one spectacular moment.

Years later, I found out she was a lesbian. I hoped our kiss wasn’t that bad and that she turned lesbian because of me. I doubt it, but my friends definitely made some jokes to me and will never let me forget it for the rest of my life.

After leaving Queens for New Jersey, I’ve been totally detached from that area, from those friends, from that park, and from those tracks. But the memories will remain a constant in my life. Whether you think I was wrong or stupid or put myself in danger, I don’t care – no matter how right you may be. I’m glad I never got caught; I’m glad I never got hurt; I’m glad I found those tracks, and I’m glad that it offered me the greatest escape I could possibly ask for and gave me peace that was unparalleled to anything I ever had as a kid. Sometimes the tracks which don’t lead anywhere can still take you some place.